


Cecil in the Mouth of Madness

by punkrockgaia



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Eldritch Abominations, Existential Horror, Gen, Lovecraftian Horror, Other, overly poetic writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8392054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/punkrockgaia
Summary: A young Cecil confronts Station Management.





	

A young man, glitter-drunk, brave with chemicals surging through his brain, totters along industrial carpet and flings open an old, scarred door in the middle of a dim, fluorescent hallway.

And

A 

Roar

And 

Light 

And 

Light 

And 

So 

Much

White

Light.

He falls, and scabbed skinned knees skid forward over a plain of sharp granite blocks going on forever and forever and forever. The door (where is the door? Was there ever a door?) is gone. There’s nothing, not a nothing, never a nothing, a nothing like this could never be a nothing…

The young man shakes on his bended knees, and turns his ruined eyes upward. There is no upward, there is only ever up. There is nothing more than up, there is only up, and up, and up…. His eyes roll up into their sockets, and then back around to the bottom, and then back up, over and over. There is no end to this… up.

And then something grasps him. Tendrils, but not tendrils, no… Snakes, vines, eels, tentacles, long and sucking on and grabbing and they’re arms but they’re stingers but they’re nerves, but they’re… they are on him and around him and in him… In his mouth, in his nose, in his ass, in his eye sockets… All around, infinite and impenetrating, inexorable, filling him with bliss and terror and sadness and infinity and nothing and…

Tendrils of loving grace.

They probe.

 _What do you seek?_ they say, out loud in this world without a world. _Why are you here? What more can we give you, beloved?_

“I want,” he gasps without breath, without air. “I want NOTHING! Please, let it end!” 

A laughing. An enormous, monstrous laugh that spreads along all the unseen (seen) tendrils and shakes him, shakes him until there is nothing but tremor. 

Then, joy. Then, possession, Then, love. Then, a word.

**NO.**

A cold wash.

Then a wriggle and a spitting, a great engorgement. Then the night-chilled pavement under his shoulder outside the station. He curls up and is sick.

Heavy boots. A red, speckled blur bending over him. 

“Void, Cecil, drunk again?” 

A wet sound of assent, or of surrender. 

The young man is lifted into strong arms, presses his face against leather and sharp metal spikes. 

“Cecil, what are we going to do with you?”

And Cecil laughs

and laughs

and laughs

until he turns inside-out.

Inside the station, something curls up, satisfied, a cat with cream.

**Author's Note:**

> The line "Tendrils of loving grace" is a reference to the Richard Brautigan poem "All Watched Over By Machines of Loving Grace" by Richard Brautigan.


End file.
